


Under The Stars Of Summer

by Kissed_by_Circe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Babies, Beta Wanted, F/M, Fluff, Jon is like the most unmusical human ever, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 16:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17563991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: When Rhaegar Targaryen played on his silver harp, maidens wept and crones sighed and even the coldest, hardest hearts melted. His son, however, knows nothing of music, and when the bard realises this, midway through his first song, his heart stutters and his hands falter on his lute.After the War for the Dawn is won, Jon and Sansa marry and retire to Summerhall. Jon knows nothing of music, but still tries to hire a bard to play for his wife because he loves her ❤️





	Under The Stars Of Summer

When Rhaegar Targaryen played on his silver harp, maidens wept and crones sighed and even the coldest, hardest hearts melted. His son, however, knows nothing of music, and when the bard realises this, midway through his first song, his heart stutters and his hands falter on his lute. The prince of Summerhall knows nothing of music, and all of the bard’s efforts are suddenly worthless. The prince not liking music is the one thing he’s not prepared for. He was so sure that he was like his father when he decided to travel south, where the air is drier and the sun burns hotter and the pain inside his leg lessens, when he dreamed of the rest of his life here in Dorne, playing for their prince.

 

He should’ve known something was amiss when he heard that there was no court musician in Summerhall, that no singer, no harpist had risked the hard journey on the Boneway, but he thought that it was because of the castle’s past, the hardships on the Boneway and the brighter lights of the queen’s court King’s Landing that kept all the others far from those soot-darkened ruins. He didn’t expect the little palace to be light and airy and filled with the purling of water from lithic fountains and the scent of so many orange trees blossoming in the dozens of small courtyards lingering in the hot, dry air.

 

And he prepared everything so well, practised low bows until he no longer toppled over on his crouches, wrote songs about the prince’s heroic deeds and his battles against the Others, and learned Northern songs that the young prince heard in his youth. He even asked the fat maester that led him to the prince’s solar what kind of songs he liked and disliked, not wanting to make the same mistake as the infamous Tom of Sevenstreams. It was supposed to be perfect – he’d play for the prince, who would recognise his skill, and be made court musician, and spend the rest of his life under the Dornish sun.

 

He never expected the prince, all dark hair and dark eyes and dark shadows looming over him, to look at him with his nose scrunched, his face bland and not betraying his feelings, as if he’s giving him a report about the economy in Braavos. The bard wants to cry, because he walked, hobbled, _crawled_ through the red dust of the Boneway hoping for his dreams to come true, only to find them crushed moments before he can reach them.

 

Raking through his mind, searching for a song that’ll touch the prince’s heart, he almost doesn’t see the helplessness that flits over the prince’s face. Neither of them likes the situation they’re in, but the fat maester – Maester Samwell, the bard remembers now – comes to their aid after the prince looks to him for support. “Thank you very much”, the smile on the sweaty face is friendly and real, and it reassures the bard at bit, “you played very well”, and then, turning to the prince, “he’s a skilled player with a pleasant, strong voice, don’t you think so, too, Jon?”

 

Prince Jon nods, relief written clearly on his face, and mumbles “Yes, yes, very good.” He would’ve said the same if a three-year old had played on the lute for him, because he couldn’t recognise a tune if someone threw it in his face, and the three men know, but neither shows it. Disappointment washing over him, the bard prepares himself for the rejection that will follow, but to his surprise, the prince, seeming nervous now, asks him to sing a song of Florian and Jonquil.

 

It’s not one of the songs he thought he’d sing for the dark prince – he sang Northern drinking songs, harmless but popular ballads and something about Aemon the Dragonknight, after asking Maester Samwell what to sing and what to avoid, and left out everything written about the War for the Dawn and The Rains of Castamere, because the prince did not want to be reminded of darker times, but he never thought he’d sing a song like that for him.

 

Remembering the words and movements of the ballad are easy, but not even the melancholic tunes of that tragic love draw the prince out of his reservation, to spark some passion in his heart or make his eyes wet. Maybe he’s not always been like this, maybe it’s what happened to him beyond the Wall, maybe he lost his heart battling the Night King and now carries only a diamond in his chest, the bard does not know, but he knows that his music isn’t touching the prince, not like it should.

 

Not even Florian and Jonquil get a response out of him, neither do the songs the bard wrote about the queen’s beauty. The maester nods and smiles and praises his skill and his voice and the texts he wrote himself, but the prince seems lost. In the end, prince Jon surprises them once more, when he asks the bard to stay for a few weeks, or more, and states simply that they are in need of a musician.

 

The bard may dread spending time in this castle with its broody lord, which he can never please, no matter how hard he tries, but he dreads the Boneway even more, and so he bows on his crouches and thanks them for their graciousness.

 

*******

 

It’s only a few days later, when prince Jon calls for him for the first time, and orders him to follow him to the gardens, that he finds out why the unmusical prince of Summerhall needs a musician.

 

Some ladies are resting in the shadows of an old, twisted olive tree on benches of stone and pillows of velvet and silk, and he recognises one of them as Princess Sansa. She’s radiant, sitting on the rim of a fountain with the head of a slender wind hound in her lap and shadows under her eyes, but her face breaks into a smile, a real one, when he bows in front of the cluster of ladies and maidens and starts playing.

 

The veil lifts, and he sees everything so much clearer than before, when the prince walks over to her. She whispers “Oh Jon” with tears in her ocean deep eyes, and he looks at her with such adoration, such love, such _devotion_ when he kisses her hand and rests his on the swell of her stomach, hidden under her wide dress that the bard finally understands why he is here.

 

*******

 

The bard stays in Summerhall. And over the next moons, years, _decades_ , he plays at feasts and entertains four little princesses, sings a little prince to sleep, and teaches them how to play the lute and the harp. Not all of them have a musical vein – Alarra sings sweeter than a nightingale, and Gwenys plays the harp just as well as her royal grandfather, but Osric cannot hold a note for the life of him, and the singing of Shiera and Rhea makes the hounds howl and cry – but their father does not notice. 

 


End file.
